Things to read before you... uh, read: Generally no romance until the very end (though you could read it as Roy/Ed if you want), so even slashphobes can enjoy this. I'll warn you when it happens. Sergeant Walsh is an OC used only for comic relief.

This takes place in a very common AU - you know, the one where Al is re-bodied but all that end-of-series and movie stuff never happened. Yeah. That one.

I declare this storydisclaimed.

Colonel Roy Mustang's Observations. Subject: Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist.

Because writing out 'Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist' every five seconds would take far too long, Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist, will hereby be referred to as 'Subject A'.

First, a brief history on our Subject. Subject A is seventeen years old, birthdate January 17th, 1898, has blonde hair and gold eyes, is four feet, ten inches tall and weighs 111 pounds. Subtract 19 from 111 and you get 92, which is Subject A's actual weight without the automail. Yes, he's a shrimp. Don't tell him I said that. Subject A's most distinctive features are his diminutive height, his two automail limbs (right arm, left leg), and the complete lack of tact, manners and ability to take a hint.

The Subject has two highly exploitable weaknesses. Weakness #1: Alphonse Elric. Subject A's sixteen year old brother, Alphonse dwarfs Subject A by about nine inches, much to the latter's consternation. Alphonse currently resides in Rizembool with Miss Winry Rockbell, and since Subject A is likely to transmute anyone who breathes wrong in his direction into a toaster, Alphonse is mostly untouchable.

Subject A's other weakness is anything sharp and pointy that can be inserted into the skin – namely, needles. While knives, forks and spears also apply, Subject A is known to go into a violent panic when faced with the possibility of inoculation. An unnamed party admits to finding it extremely entertaining to mention booster shots to him.

Subject A's one-week stay at the sexy and benevolent Roy Mustang's house came about on Saturday, October 10th. The conversation proceeded as thus:

At 3:03 pm that afternoon, Subject A wobbles into the dashingly handsome Roy Mustang's office without knocking, pale, sniffly, and practically oozing germs. He drops facedown onto the couch and does not justify his entry.

Roy Mustang does not approve. With a frown on his lips, he says, "Fullmetal, what are you doing?"

"Sleepin'." Subject A responds to the cushions.

"You have a bed for that."

"They're spraying for termites." Subject A mumbles, not showing any respect to his superior by looking at him when he speaks. "I think I'm allergic to it... I don't feel good." Roy Mustang whips out a notepad and makes a note of Subject A's last comment. According to Alphonse, getting him to admit to any degree of illness is like pulling teeth. "What's with the termites, anyway?"

"I don't know." Roy Mustang says, primly tapping a stack of paper against the desk to even it out. He does know, at least somewhat – when Sergeant-Major Anger (name changed to protect the innocent) opened a dormitory wall to save a hapless lobster which had somehow become lodged in the aforementioned wall, he was brutally attacked by a mob of termites. The exterminators were called in, and while the building's occupants were allowed to stay, workers ripping out sheetrock at all hours certainly was a detriment to sleep. And apparently, Subject A was allergic to the chemicals used to destroy the tiny wood-eaters. (1)

After listening to Subject A sniffle, cough, sneeze, moan, groan, and complain for the better part of three hours, Roy Mustang's compassionate side begins to shine though. He discovers that it will be approximately a week before the termite infestation would be under control, and while the prospect of having a whiny, volatile teenager in his house for a week isn't entirely pleasant, he can't leave a suffering subordinate behind (unless, of course, it's Sergeant Walsh – one more coffeepot destroyed and he shall feel the wrath of a man scorned. Roy Mustang's munificence only extends so far).

Subject A temporarily moved into the wonderfully generous Roy Mustang's beautiful, well-kept house at exactly 7:48 am on Sunday. Roy Mustang, as he watched Subject A drop his suitcase on his foot and unleash a torrent of swearing the likes of which innocent-eared Roy Mustang has never heard, realized how peculiar the minuscule creature's habits were. And this journal was born.

(1) The whereabouts of the lobster remain unknown.
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